


sleep when you're dead

by theantepenultimateriddle



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: F/F, Murder, cutter is here but..... not for long don't come here expecting prime cutter content, fuck cutter tho honestly, if you're not okay with that please don't read this I don't want anyone to get hurt, lovelace shoots first and asks questions never, minkowski is the voice of reason, occupy Goddard Futuristics, suicidal ideation? attempted suicide?, written in second-person present because I can't shake my homestuck origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 17:26:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11166579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theantepenultimateriddle/pseuds/theantepenultimateriddle
Summary: Killing him was the easy part.





	sleep when you're dead

You kick down the door to his office with a crash, the shock reverberating all the way up your leg, and you grit your teeth to stifle a noise of pain as your foot is crushed against the wood. It flies open and bangs into the wall on the other side loudly. The gold nameplate on it shakes loose and crashes down, clattering on the floor. You step over it on your way in, glancing down only briefly to read the ornate script-  _ Marcus Cutter, Goddard Futuristics CEO.  _ Then you continue walking, your boots clomping on the pristine marble of the floors. The metal of your gun is warm and slick with sweat under your palms and you grip it tighter, afraid that it’ll slip. You’re too close now for any mistakes.

The office is huge. If you didn’t know better, you’d call it a throne room- it’s long and wide, almost a corridor, ornate and still minimalist in the way that only the filthy rich seem to be able to achieve. The walls are covered in diplomas, certificates, pictures of Cutter shaking hands with influential people and wearing a smile that never reaches his eyes. At the very end there’s a wall entirely made of glass, looking down at the city far below, and in front of it there is a gigantic desk. There he sits, hair slicked back, the same smile, his fingers steepled. He’s wearing a pristine black suit with a bright blue tie. For a moment, looking at him, you don’t feel anything, not even anger. And then he opens his hands to you, smiling even wider. “Isabel,” he says, his voice just as condescending and faux cheerful as it always was on pulse-beacon relay calls, and the rage shoots through you again, filling your limbs, your mind. Your vision doesn’t white out. Instead it sharpens, down to where you can see the individual hairs on Cutter’s head, and you’re so angry. You’re so fucking pissed off. 

Cutter opens his mouth again and you shoot him between the eyes before he can say another word. 

His expression changes in the moment before he dies; his mouth shuts and he looks almost confused, his eyebrows creasing around the surprisingly small hole in his forehead. And then he falls, head down, on the desk. The back of his head was blown open by the shot, and blood is everywhere. His skull shows through his dark hair, a glint of white amidsts the red and black and gray, and a bit of- of  _ something _ slides slowly down his huge leather chair, glistening wetly. It lands on the ground with a squelch, and you can’t help it. You bend over and retch, dropping your gun on the floor to put your hands on your knees. Your heart is racing- you can feel your pulse in your throat, in your hands, in your face- and you drop down onto your hands and knees and vomit up a thin stream of bile, all you can manage to rid yourself of after days of not eating. Your eyes sting from tears. His blood smells coppery, and you gag again, convulsing.  _ Oh, god. Oh, my god. _

When the dry-heaves stop, you’re shaking. Your arms feel almost too weak to hold you up, and you give in to that weakness, falling on your side and curling up into the fetal position. A voice in your head tells you to get up and get going, there’s still stuff to do.  _ Be a big girl, Lovelace. Stand up.  _ But it’s drowned out almost immediately by another voice- Eiffel’s. His words echo in your ears.  _ You don’t want to kill anyone. We don’t want to kill anyone.  _ A plea. Others come back as quickly- Hui’s, Fourier’s, Fisher’s, Lambert’s. Faces slowly being consumed by illness and by fear, voices becoming hoarse whispers. Their deaths, their disappearances. You’ve killed Cutter, you’ve cut the head off the snake, but they’re still dead and you curl up tighter around the hole carved in you and cry in shaking sobs, snot and tears running down your face. You hate yourself for it. You hate yourself for your weakness now and for your uselessness when it really mattered. For everything you are. A bad leader. A murderer. A disappointment.  _ Mission failure. Total loss of crew, including one Captain Isabel Sofia Lovelace.  _

You don’t even have claim to this grief. You’re not her. Just a fake.

Without the anger that’s been driving you for so long you can finally feel the pain of loss to its full extent, and it hurts so damn much that you think you might die. You want to die. You want it to be over already. You maybe should have ended a long time ago, but you had unfinished business, and now here you are and it’s all done so isn’t it finally time for the ghost to be exorcised? Isn’t it?

Your body moves almost on its own, like you’re a spectator outside it and have no control. You see your hand pick up the gun, hold it. Slowly, you push yourself up to your knees, balancing as best you can. Then you raise the gun to your temple and prepare to blow yourself to bits. 

Footsteps from behind the door, and Minkowski’s voice, sharp as needles. “Captain, what the  _ hell _ is going on here?”

You freeze, the gun pressed to your head. The metal of the barrel is still hot. When you speak, your voice sounds flat and far away. “Go away, Minkowski.” She’s been through so much. You don’t want her to see this. 

“Like hell.” More footsteps, and then she kneels down beside you, putting her hands on your shoulders. You flinch away from her touch and she pulls away just as fast, instead sticking her face next to yours. You can see the deep brown of her eyes, clear despite the bags underneath, and feel the warmth of her breath on your chin. “Put the gun down. Now.” She uses her commander voice, speaking to you like a crew member, and for a moment all you want to do is kill yourself just to prove that you can’t be controlled like that. Then, moving slowly because your limbs feel stiff and wrong, you lower the gun. You move robotically, turn on the safety, and set it down. 

You look at Minkowski, taking in the sight of her. Her hair has started to come down out of her bun, and strands of dark hair float around her face, brushing her shoulders. On her face is a look that you know intimately- the face of one who has come so close to death and escaped, and can’t stand to see anyone else not making it. The pit in your stomach yawns deeper with guilt. You made her feel this way.

_ A disappointment. _

You look away from her eyes and try to stand, but she grabs your arm and pulls you back down. You try to wrench it out of her grasp, and when that fails you glare at her, your fists clenched. “Don’t touch me.” 

“Oh, no. I’m not going to let you go just so you can go off and kill yourself somewhere else. I mean…” Minkowski trails off, pauses to rub her free hand against her face as if wiping off sweat or tears. “What were you thinking? Isabel-”

You cut her off. “I,” you say, talking through gritted teeth, “am not Isabel. We established that a long, long time ago. I can be Lovelace. Hell, I  _ earned _ that name. It’s  _ mine _ now. But Isabel? Commander, I will never, ever have claim to that. Isabel isn’t me. I was never her. And I-” your voice breaks, and you finish in a whisper. “I never will be.”

When Minkowski opens her mouth again, you expect pity. But her voice is firm now, steadier. “Lovelace,” she says, no room for argument in her words. “Now is not the time. You might not be Isabel. But we don’t need Isabel. Like it or not, we need you. You’re a captain. A leader. And we can’t have you drowning in yourself right now. Have your pity party later, but we have shit that needs doing and people we need to get it done. So are you with us or not?”

You open your mouth to argue, to tell her that no, you’re useless, you can’t do this, but the calm voice in your head interrupts again.  _ Be a big girl. Don’t die. Don’t die. _ So instead you nod and move again to stand up. Minkowski stands with you, not letting go of your arm. “You can let go now,” you say, even though the gun on the floor looks tempting, like you should pick it up. “I’m fine.”

She shakes her head. “No. I really can’t.” Minkowski looks into your face again, and you notice not for the first time how soft her skin looks, her lips. Her eyebrows are creased, the corners of her mouth turned down. “I can’t risk losing you.”

Without really thinking, you put a hand on her face and kiss her, lightly, on the mouth. You were right about her skin. She inhales sharply, almost a gasp, and you pull away immediately. She’s staring at you, her eyes wide, her long eyelashes almost brushing her eyebrows. She opens her mouth, but you turn away. “Let’s go, Commander.” Fuck, your face is burning. 

Her grasp on your arm tightens and she pulls you back towards her. She puts her other hand on your shoulder and kisses you back. Her mouth is warm, her lips wet, and she’s kissing you hard, like you’re the only thing keeping her on Earth. You lean into it and she slides her hands down, resting them on your waist. You try not to think about Cutter’s body, so close to you both. 

She’s the one who pulls away this time, and her eyes are sharp, almost burning. “It’s not the time for this, either. But later.” You nod and she lets go of you, finally. Then she turns away, towards the door. “Come on,” Minkowski says, already walking out. She looks back over your shoulder at you. “We’ve got a company to take down.”

You hurry after her. You still feel empty, still feel like you’re not really there. But the Commander is right- pity later. 

Work now. 


End file.
